literature

How i Cried At Him

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Literature Text

From the day he heard me recite.

He had tirelessly stalked my works.

Batting eagerly at my still hand when it ceased scrawling.

And scoffing at the results when the meaning was lost on him.

At night I found myself laying into a journal.

Only to resent the finished product.

And chastise my muse until he brushed my cheek with lips of velvet, bidding me rest.

Leaving him to take red to the verses.

And let morning rise herald his disgusted critique.

He stared for the longest time from amid tenebrosity as I spat at my lacking.

Pawed through my notebooks come dark to monitor my progress and draw his claws through the things that displeased him.

The last day I saw him was when I thrust my books towards his fumbling arms and cried bias at his take on tender commentary.

When he failed to respond, I pressed with a bitterness unfamiliar to him.

'Cat snatch your tongue?'

He dropped my stacks and left me with a stinging uneventfulness of the heart.

'If only he'd rid me of it sooner.'
© 2014 - 2024 drowsydoe
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